


roots in stasis

by losebetter



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: (ships are not really the point of this but i thought i'd warn anyone averse ahead of time), ARE YOU PROUD OF ME DEL TORO. IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED., Background Relationships, Beauregard/Yasha - Freeform, Canonical Character Death, Crossover - Pacific Rim, Dolan Thrym/Horris Thrym, Friendship, Jester/OFC, M/M, a ridiculous mishmash potluck of genres, oh god. what am i doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 11:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14135547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/losebetter/pseuds/losebetter
Summary: When the Wicked Mother is first presented, a Mark-III dreamed up in a haze of possibility and  engineering progressing in leaps and bounds, it's thetheorythat sells everyone on her: she's sleek, built for speed like something out of a dream. Four functional legs tapered into an array of claws, an armored tail, a halo of ballistic holsters that fan open like the mane of a manticore - ananimal.To fight fire with fire, considering, over the blueprints, and the engineer behind her design had only smiled.We thought the same, they'd said,and so that's what we've done. And anyone not sold on the idea had changed their minds at the sight of the fuel carriers, the nitrogen holds - the cutaway on the Mother's head that showed the first jaeger construction in history to be packing an honest-to-godflamethrowerbehind three rows of perfectly sharp teeth.When the Wicked Mother arrives at the resistance outpost close to ten years later, she's in almost perfect condition - a description Bryce hadn't believed when they'd heard it, but that now connects in their head with perfect, hopeless clarity.





	roots in stasis

**Author's Note:**

> SO LIKE, travis did the _uprising_ ad and said he wanted the armor, so y'all can just go and blame him for this mess - him and [@catzgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catzgirl/pseuds/Catzgirl), who kept me company during my week or so without internet in my new place and didn't discourage this AU _IN THE SLIGHTEST_. thanks also to my lovely beta [@ledgem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasciel) for all of her encouragement and help! <33
> 
> where is it going, and for how long? who knows! i wanted to write something about big fantasy robots and this thing only continues to outgrow its sandbox, so i'm posting it. (シ_ _)シ let me know if it's a fun enough ride, hey?

When the Wicked Mother is first presented, a Mark-III dreamed up in a haze of possibility andengineering progressing in leaps and bounds, it's the _theory_ that sells everyone on her: she's sleek, built for speed like something out of a dream. Four functional legs tapered into an array of claws, an armored tail, a halo of ballistic holsters that fan open like the mane of a manticore - an _animal_.

_To fight fire with fire,_ considering, over the blueprints, and the engineer behind her design had only smiled.

_We thought the same_ , they'd said, _and so that's what we've done_. And anyone not sold on the idea had changed their minds at the sight of the fuel carriers, the nitrogen holds - the cutaway on the Mother's head that showed the first jaeger construction in history to be packing an honest-to-god _flamethrower_ behind three rows of perfectly sharp teeth.

When the Wicked Mother arrives at the resistance outpost close to ten years later, she's in almost perfect condition - a description Bryce hadn't believed when they'd heard it, but that now connects in their head with perfect, hopeless clarity.

They force themselves to look at it again, calloused hands dragging down their face to cover their mouth.

"Dolan… you can't pilot it," they say, too smart to turn it into a question.

Their companion is shorter, with greying hair kept out of their eyes - he adjusts his round lenses, only propriety making him hesitate.

"I don't know of anyone here who could," he says, voice soft and calm, and Bryce only nods. The bags under their eyes are getting severe, their wrists too thin, but Dolan doesn't point it out. "Thing's a deathtrap."

Bryce only nods, mute. How many jaegers does this bring them down to - two? _One_?

"No pilot can make it viable? No modifications?"

Dolan sighs heavily, casting his eyes up to the fifteen-hundred-ton hunk of deadweight they've just adopted.

"Only one that I can think of," he answers. "With respect: you're going to need a crazy son of a bitch."

* * *

Widogast - _Widogast the Deserter_ , even, like he's some fucking legend - isn't where Ulog is told he should be. There's a little shithole where bitter, discharged pilots tend to wind up when they're no longer good to fight, and Bryce had been too nice to suggest that Ulog check there first, but he knows what he's heard. Everything about Caleb Widogast's decision to fuck off with his tail between his legs points here: _Opportunity_.

Only problem is, nobody's home.

Ulog tucks his blistered hands into his coat pockets and steps quietly over acid-mangled debris littering the road, glancing up at where the community's crumbling sign has been defaced; a crudely spray-painted _WE'RE NOT GOING BACK_ is laid over the raised iron of the original letters, dripping an accusatory blue that doesn't quite match the glittering toxic muck encroaching from the coast.

Maybe once upon a time, Opportunity was intended to be something nice - a sign of respect for pilots injured or put out of commission in the line of duty, a meal ticket or two to back up all the bloody patriotism - but in the time it had taken them to plan it, society's admiration of the jaeger program had begun to slip. Opportunity's state of disrepair and nonfunctionality speaks to that as well as anything, the only two completed housing units now a dilapidated façade at the gate, opening the space up to half-finished builds and collapsed wooden structures overtaken by a flood of watered-down acid.

Still, its purpose seems to have been seen to postmortem, ex-pilots with itchy trigger fingers holing up where they can in all the dirt and grime. It's a scummy, paranoid district - everything Widogast had _supposedly_ carried like an aura, like flies on shit.

"So where the gory hells _is he_?"

The man Ulog had stopped - some greaseball human who'd looked down his nose at him, then sprung for his bag - only frowns, what could be hunger twisting his face into a pallid grotesque; though, that could also be Ulog's wide hand over his throat.

"I'm _telling_ you," the human seethes, growling when Ulog impatiently tightens his grip, "Wi-do-gast? Don't fucking know him. An' I see more of this dump than anyone else, so you can bet no one else has seen him, either."

Ulog's eyes narrow. "And you really don't recognize the name? _Caleb Widogast_ , apparently on the track to Marshall before he got cold feet and disappeared. Only thirty-some years old." He sniffs, deliberating, before he adds, "we think he was part of the Dwendalian strike team that was decommissioned last year. Never showed for reassignment."

The human works up enough of a drool to spit, which Ulog scuffs his foot to dodge - it melts seamlessly into the thin layer of mud that the whole district has been marinating in for years. Gods, he fucking hates it here.

"Empire schmuck?" the man says around Ulog's thoroughly annoyed grip. "Sounds like a prissy coward to me, ser." That had been Ulog's first thought too, but if he'd had the good sense to stay out of Opportunity, he may have to begrudgingly give Widogast this one.

He gives the human one more shove for good measure, only pulling off when his cursing has thinned to gurgling.

"Perfect," Ulog grumbles, letting him scamper off to cut someone else's purse. "My lucky fucking day."

* * *

"Pumat," Bryce entreats, and the broad-backed firbolg only smiles genially as he sets four perfectly balanced metal trays on the table in front of them with a calm bow, "you are unbelievable. An actual godsend."

"Just doing my job, Watchmaster," he replies kindly. When the trays have been situated, he clasps his paw-like hands in front of him and offers a beatific nod. "And that's quite alright, I don't believe in any gods."

Bryce hides their immediate instinct to laugh behind a quiet cough into the shoulder of their thick collared shirt. (It was white once upon a time, though it sits at a permanent greying tan, now.) They reach for their tray as their companions do the same, and dismiss Pumat with a slow nod of their own.

"I appreciate it."

Pumat's countenance is luminous to the point of absurdity when he says, only, "and _I_ appreciate you all saving the world," and makes his mysterious way back to the kitchens, fluff-capped tail swaying behind him.

Dolan is watching him go from across the table, chin in one palm and a pout on his face that makes him look ten years younger. "Do you think he really has that much faith in us?"

Bryce gives him a withering look and sighs, taking up a disposable fork. Lunch looks like a pile of rice, reddish-orange with sauce and spices, and a much smaller portion of thinly-struck meat that they rather hope is chicken.

"I think he hasn't got much of a choice," Horris puts in from beside him, over the coffee mug Pumat knows to provide on his tray. He's handling the exhaustion the best, Bryce thinks, but that isn't saying much. He takes a thoughtful sip, then sets the mug down without letting go of it entirely. "Besides, Pumat's not really the type to worry about anything, is he? We could all go down tomorrow and the blessed oaf'd probably just start looking for another gig."

Dolan whaps his arm with the paper napkin he's just unfolded to put in his lap. "You can't just _say_ that," he insists tersely. "Throw some salt over your shoulder or something."

"I don't think that's how that works," Bryce says, at the same time a deep, soft voice from their left says, "here," and then the salt shaker appears at the center of the table. They let out a sigh, flicking their eyes to the side.

Yasha - half of the resistance's only viable jockey team and co-pilot of the devious Mark-IV dubbed the _Devil's Circus_ \- isn't quite enough of a stranger to be an eerie presence at the table, but the strain of the conversation Bryce knows is coming unnerves them, and her wide, alabaster shoulders and endless tumbling braids do the rest to intimidate them into respectful silence.

Given that, Bryce thinks she almost seems shy when she takes her hand back, awkwardly mixing chicken and rice with her fork.

Horris and Dolan become wrapped up in their own conversation (the former looks indulgent, the latter's face a rare study in fondness), which at least gives Bryce time to clear their throat and turn to face Yasha properly.

"Ah… thank you for agreeing to meet with me," they say, and Yasha offers a tiny smile.

"Of course, Watchmaster." Her tone manages to be both graceful and awkward at once; there's a strange, contradictory aloofness to her sharp gaze that gives Bryce the impression that strategies are easier for her than people, and she has the simulator scores to match. "Far as I can tell, you know more than just about anybody stationed here, so listening to you is generally a good way to stay alive." She inclines her head, evidently done with eye contact - which works for Bryce, who resumes eating. "I'm sorry Tealeaf couldn't be here," she adds.

"Where is he at?" Bryce asks conversationally, though they worry the answer will only spike their stress levels.

Yasha shrugs a hulking shoulder and proves them right in one. "Not entirely sure. He left to go climb around on stuff."

"That's, ah, all he said?"

"Mhmm. He likes to go and play around in new ruins. Says he knows the city so well that the destruction talks to him, or… something."

Bryce considers pressing her, but decides it's not worth it. "Well, I guess I'm in no position to argue with his results," they offer diplomatically, and Yasha hums beside them.

There are a few moments of well-needed ease as they all eat, but Bryce can't keep off the subject for long - they clear their throat, trying to act as the de facto authority they by all counts are.

"Yasha…" they start, and she raises her silver-studded eyebrows politely, "how is the Circus holding up at the minute?"

Yasha purses her lips, which isn't encouraging when she hadn't been smiling to begin with.

"As a line of defense, fine," she answers, though she's started using a toothpick to clean evasively under her nails. "But - forgive me, Watchmaster, but we don't seem to be making any progress."

At that she stops, checking Bryce for a reaction, but they merely nod her on, going for a metal water bottle at their side.

"Logistically… we can't hold out forever," she admits. As a pilot, Bryce thinks, Yasha is interesting — she seems to view critique or apprehension as an insult to authority, and executes it only sparingly despite their open invitation. They wonder where she must have studied, where she comes from to have developed such deference, but her history is as enigmatic as her elusive partner's.

But then, her partner is certainly boisterous enough for two people - maybe they balance one another out after all.

"You said your plan was to - destroy the breach." She trips over it, but tries to smile to make up for it when she continues, "do we have the firepower for that? You got something new in, didn't you? Maybe, with two of us…?"

And _here_ 's the talk Bryce had been dreading. They scrub a slightly sweat-damp hand down over their face.

"That's - I mean, we did, yes, but - " - and before they can even get a foothold on the statement, their eyes flutter open at a persistent alarm just next to their ear.

They blink owlishly for a second, then fold one arm up automatically to allow their wristwatch to project its own alarm: _SECURE_ _COMMUNICATIONS_ \- _ULOG, INTERNAL CODE -_

"Ulog's report," they tell the table, and Horris rolls his eyes, makes a _give it_ gesture with the hand not holding his coffee.

"Talk to Yasha," he says, "I'll deal with Ulog."

Bryce nods and simply swipes at a few menus on their display, until the standard earpiece at Horris' temple pings with the same alarm. He presses a button without hesitation and rolls his eyes skyward.

"Ulog, you fucker," he greets, to some good old dwarven shit-talking on the other line, and Dolan tuts beside him.

"Let the Watchmaster eat," he puts in delicately, and Horris automatically tilts his head to let his partner hear better.

There's more murmured discussion, but Bryce shakes their head and turns to Yasha, folding their hands just in front of their chin.

"The new jaeger - and she really is new, not a scratch on her…" Gods, it hurts to pop the bubble of Yasha's clear delight. "…Horris and Dolan can't pilot her."

Yasha's brows draw in. "Why not?"

Bryce's eyes close, ears drooping despite their efforts - they'd all been _so close_ , and then - to be told - "She's called the _Wicked Mother_ ," they report, as neutrally as possible, "and the reason she's in almost perfect condition is because she wasn't ever actually _used_."

"And you're so sure we can't change that?" To her credit, Yasha doesn't sound like she blames them. It's only a small relief.

"Dolan is, and I trust his eye. It's - he called it a _deathtrap_ , and I believe it. I - I've never seen an active jaeger on four legs before."

Yasha lets out a whooshing sigh, something like _four legs_ coming out at a mutter.

"I know," Bryce concedes, staring unblinking into what's left of their lunch. "Dolan and Horris are experienced, certainly, but that only means they know the kind of strain that design would put on a pilot team. I can't - ask that of them."

There's a brief silence; the men in question seem to be bickering with the salty dwarf currently taking up Horris' headset, and Yasha meets Bryce's eyes, her gaze cool.

"Well," she says, more softly than before, testing. "You _could_."

Bryce's features pinch, they can feel the ache of it, but, "I could… but I wouldn't. Not against their will."

At once, Yasha's poker face draws into a small smile. "Good answer," she affirms.

It's at about this time that Horris winces, reflexively turning his head as if trying to pull away from Ulog in his ear, and both Bryce and Yasha look up.

Dolan looks apologetic - he ends up being the one to speak up. "Sorry, Watchmaster - says he needs to talk to you - "

" - _you sack of shit, tell the sodding Watchmaster_ \- "

"I'm here, Ulog," Bryce calls neutrally; a few traded swipes with Horris projects Ulog's security code again, and his indignant voice suddenly echoes in the mostly empty mess hall.

" _Oh - Watchmaster, good. Great._ " 

"Not so much?" they ask, wide eyes on Horris, who only shrugs helplessly.

" _Yeah, everything's just comin' up roses over here, trust me._ " There's a pause as he barks something unintelligible, covering the receiver, then he's back: " _I found your bloody golden boy_ ," he continues, the sneer thick in his voice.

Even so, this news makes Bryce brighten considerably, pointed ears twitching. "Widogast?" they breathe, almost afraid to hope.

Ulog makes a snorting noise - a moment later there's the muted sound of him hocking something into the ground, and Bryce sees Dolan unobtrusively set his fork down.

" _The same_ ," he answers. " _Found him fishing, you know. Godsdamned world's ending, I tear Opportunity apart, and where is he? Fool legs kicking off the_ fucking _pier_ \- "

"Ulog," Bryce pleads, at full attention now, "is he okay? Can he - "

" _Yeah, yeah. In fact, he's got a co-pilot of his own out here. He damn well insists._ "

Bryce's lips twitch, unsure why Ulog sounds so beleaguered. "That's… perfect. Ulog, that's _perfect_ , this really couldn't have turned out better for us." Their breath catches and they put their free hand to their chest to quiet a nervous hiccup looming at the back of their throat. "Unless there's something you're not telling me?"

Bryce gets the sense from Ulog's labored breaths that he'd been waiting for this, that something is desperately wrong after all, and they're all about to find out what it is.

" _I'll let you make final call on that one, Watchmaster_ ," he says, playing at prudence before he finally hurls it out the window all at once. " _She's a godsforsaken nine-year-old!_ "

The first person Bryce makes eye contact with is Yasha, who can't disguise the bare shock on her face. Ulog seems to have pulled away from the receiver again, and the hush of conversation allows Bryce to check in on his other two companions, as well - though they only exchange a look and turn back, looking as caught out as Bryce feels. 

Horris rubs at his forehead, a loose curl dropping over his thumb. Dolan sits up a little straighter and mouths, _I did say crazy._

Bryce knows it, too. They need Caleb desperately if they want any hope of getting the Wicked Mother to work for them, but - 

" _Oh,_ " Ulog interrupts, laying it on thick, " _pardon me, Watchmaster - apparently she only_ looks _nine years old — hey!!_ "

" _Her name is Nott_ ," comes a heavily accented voice through the receiver, a manic, deadpan rush, " _and she is not a child, she is only very small, but I trust her with my life_."

Not for the first time, Bryce gets the distinct feeling that they are in, perhaps, over their position's pay grade - if not their head.

"O…kay?"

" _It is me you were looking for, yes?_ " the voice says. Gods, it makes Bryce's back knot up just listening to him. He sounds heavily caffeinated at the very least, words tumbling out of his mouth a mile a minute. 

" _Caleb Widogast, veteran of_ \- " - and he cuts off briefly, to the mildly amusing sounds of Ulog struggling to take his receiver back - " - _no, let me, I have it - veteran of the dispersed Dwendalian strike team, jaeger calls: 10-0013, 10-0015, 10-0026. Do you need dates? Kaiju -_ stop _it, you insufferable man_ \- _I can recite to you whatever you need, just tell me whether my little friend and I answer to you, or not._ "

The sounds of a scuffle ensue. Bryce feels suddenly exhausted, far too overwhelmed to make any sense of the strange display. They look to Dolan again, who seems thoughtful across the table. Upon realizing he has the Watchmaster's attention, he raises one hand and wiggles it in an _ehh_ gesture.

_Me too_ , Bryce mouths urgently.

_Couldn't hurt,_ he whispers back, eyebrows raised to turn it into a question - the question of the day, as it were.

Bryce takes in a deep breath, lets it out through their nose. After only two of those, Ulog appears back on the line, sounding - well, like the resistance's most overworked asshole.

" _Charming, isn't he? He's just_ like that _, you know. At least from what I can tell._ "

"I trust your judgment, Ulog."

Ulog hums. " _But you want him anyway_."

"Do you want the truth?"

In a rare moment of placidity, Ulog sighs - his tone is still ornery, but with an edge of grief that brings a sad smile to Bryce's face.

" _I do, yeah._ "

Bryce nods - partly to themselves, partly to the rest of the table - and makes the call:

"We need him."

The comm is quiet for a heartbeat, two. Then, " _Copy that_."

"Thank you, Ulog."

Another quiet cough. " _I hope you know what you're doing, Watchmaster._ "

"For all of our sakes… so do I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cheeky references in this chapter:  
> • only one! _opportunity_ gets its name from a map in _borderlands 2._

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to poke me on [tumblr](http://losebetter.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/losebetter) and tell me how outrageously in over my head you think i am! :D<3
> 
> (EDIT: p.s. for anyone who stumbles on this, i actually wrote about another 10k of it but i got super stuck in a rut of hating it so i'm not sure it will ever be continued, sorry;;;;; maybe once i get over this most recent slump ;;)


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